


Addiction is a Four-Letter Word

by FuckBenedict



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, jimlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:49:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1767799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuckBenedict/pseuds/FuckBenedict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>sorry lmao</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> sorry lmao

_“James Moriarty”_

The name rolled off Sherlock’s tongue like a purr, softly and slowly. He sat perched in his armchair, fingers steepled and brushing against his lips as he spoke. Ever-attentive eyes trained on the man across from him, the detective smiled dangerously, arching a brow.

“What a thoroughly pleasant… well, not surprise, I suppose. You are so very predictable, after all,” he shook his head with feigned disapproval.

Jim gave a sigh, pouting at the detective. “Am I _boooring_ you?” he hummed derisively, leaning forward.

Sherlock paralleled the movement, slouching back into his chair. “Almost always, yes,” came his sardonic response as he waved a hand dismissively. 

The criminal took Sherlock’s shift of position as an invitation as opposed to a display of boredom, closing the gap between the two with a step. He placed a well-manicured hand on each arm of the chair, leaning over the detective possessively. “Then perhaps we can change that, mm?” he purred with a predatory lick of his lips. Sherlock met his eyes without moving.

“Come now Sherly, you’re not one for feigning ignorance,” Moriarty hissed, lowering his head to Sherlock’s. His eyes dropped to the detective’s lips as he sighed. “You’re so tedious, Sherlock”

“ _I’m_ tedious?” Sherlock repeated with disbelief, his refusal to break eye contact eliciting a satisfied smirk from the criminal. Jim moved one hand to Sherlock’s chin, tipping his head back slightly. “Mm, very,” he crooned mockingly.

Sherlock hazarded a smile. “Yet you choose to continue our little game. Rather paradoxical, Jim”

Moriarty released his grip on the man’s chin with a scowl, hand hovering between the two with uncharacteristic uncertainty. “Because I keep hoping you’ll play it _properly,”_ he hissed, dark eyes flashing with a dangerous mixture of amusement and malice.

“I didn’t realize there were conditions,” Sherlock scoffed insolently, refusing to react to the way the criminal’s eyes bored into his own.

Jim was silent for a few moments, studying Sherlock without comment.

“Sherlock Holmes,” - he accented every syllable - “how do I make you feel?”

His tone was dangerously polite, thinly concealed malevolence dancing beneath the quiet lilt of his voice. For a half-second Sherlock’s breath hitched, betraying his imperturbable composure; then the criminal was gone from above him, falling back into his own chair. Moriarty propped his chin on his hand, giving a noise of disapproval as he watched the detective’s expression with bemused cruelty.

“Really, dear, I do expect a proper answer next time,” he admonished after a few moments, standing and straightening his tie purposely. “And some tea wouldn’t hurt”

And with that, Moriarty turned on his heel and stalked – rather maliciously, if Sherlock did say so – out of the flat.

Sherlock stared after him with an unidentifiable mixture of perplexity and disorientation.

For the first time in a very long while, the detective was faced with a question that he truly could not answer.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim slouched in the oversized armchair in his temporary flat’s living room, eyes on nothing in particular. His hand moved ever so slightly as if to dictate the notes of the music echoing throughout the room as he glared at the phone in its resting spot on the chair’s arm, willing it to make a noise. Sherlock had been purposely ignoring him for weeks now – ever since their last encounter at 221B - and the criminal was thoroughly unimpressed. He had to admit that he hadn’t expected Sherlock to apply such patience; he indeed seemed committed to boring Moriarty into something more… flaunting. Of course, while Moriarty had no objection to doing so, he utterly refused to on the puerile grounds that it would be giving Sherlock what he wanted. Which, of course, the criminal was - conditionally - opposed to.

Jim’s annoyed reverie was broken by the sound of the flat’s door unlocking. He ignored the sound, mock-obliviously twirling his hand in time to his music, eyes closed. Even so, there was no subtlety in the footsteps that approached.

“How naïve do you take me for, Jim?” the detective drawled. “Or rather, how naïve do you think I take _you_ for?”

A smirk played its way onto Moriarty’s face, though he feigned irritation. “You’re interrupting my music,” he pouted, pointedly keeping his eyes closed.

Sherlock snorted derisively. “You expect me to believe you’re sincerely enjoying 40 in G-minor? How… quaint”

Jim gave an offended noise, now glaring at the detective. “I thought you might enjoy molto allegro, Sherlock, how dare you. A man is allowed to enjoy the… mainstream,” he glowered, crossing his arms. Sherlock merely raised his eyebrows in response before crossing the room, glancing out the window with evident disdain. “All of London to choose from and you pick a flat that hasn’t even a proper view”

The criminal rose, smoothing the casual t-shirt he was wearing, and sauntered over to where Sherlock stood. “What, the great Sherlock “oh-the-body-is-just-transport” Holmes thinks a _view_ is important?” he mocked, leaning against the window frame. Sherlock glanced down at the man with as much contempt as he could muster; which - given that Sherlock was, indeed, Sherlock - was quite a lot.

“Yes, in fact. Can’t think without a view,” he stated deprecatingly, drawing his eyes back to the street below. Snorting, Moriarty stalked toward the kitchen. “No better than your little hellhole,” he declared. Sherlock sighed lightly, turning from the window and following the criminal’s movements with icy eyes.

“You know,” Moriarty called as he put on the kettle, _“you_ were the one who owed _me_ tea”

Promptly parking himself in Jim’s armchair, Sherlock shrugged. “ _Well,_ I’m already sitting down; you might as well continue yourself”

The criminal rolled his eyes with faux exasperation. “How are you even _functioning_ on your own with Watson moved out?”

“Surprisingly well, actually”

“I’m sure,” Moriarty drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm.

The two lapsed into silence as Jim retrieved teacups from the cupboards and Sherlock eyed the stack of CD’s on the coffee table. He recognized almost none of the names; most were rock artists that the detective had no interest in learning anything about. The few he did recognize were obscure composers he used to concern himself with; he’d rather grown out of said concern in music other than his own. He plucked the most used-looking from the collection and turned it in his hands.

“I wouldn’t have pinned you as the type to listen to… this sort of thing,” Sherlock commented, holding up the CD and arching a brow. “Which is saying something, given that it is my job to do just that”

Moriarty glanced up, smirking. “What, you don’t think an eccentric mass murderer can enjoy a little Marina and the Diamonds? Don’t be ridiculous”

Sighing again, Sherlock busied himself analyzing the track listing. “… ‘Bubblegum Bitch’? Really, James?”

“Jim,” the criminal corrected with a frown. “And if you’ve resorted to criticizing my music tastes I’m going to infer that it’s simply because you had nothing else to criticize. Flattering, dear, but don’t take it out on Marina”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but fell silent once more, leaning back in the chair and tapping one hand’s fingers against the armrest impatiently.  Moriarty sauntered back to the detective, holding his teacup out to him with an imitatedly reverent gesture. Pointedly not accepting it, Sherlock made a face of slight exasperation. “Are the theatrics necessary?”

Moriarty merely smirked in response, once more proffering the drink.

Accepting the fact that yes, they probably in fact were, Sherlock took the cup with no further hesitation. “Sugar?”

“As if I don’t know how much you take, Sherly. Really, I’m insulted,” the criminal replied with a wink, settling into the chair opposite. “And it isn’t even drugged!”

Ignoring Jim’s comment, Sherlock idly sipped his tea, studying the man before him. Moriarty had always been trouble for his deductive skills, not that he couldn’t read him – like The Woman – but because he didn’t bother to hide the things that could be read. Much more dangerous than Ms. Adler’s solution had ever been; she had proven she had things to hide, whereas Moriarty seemed thoroughly determined to prove quite the opposite - a fact which left Sherlock uncomfortably tentative to place any bets on the true nature of the man. And, of course, the reason Moriarty had been so right in assuming that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to stay away.


End file.
